


I’m always dreaming but I’ll never sleep again

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Leech [4]
Category: Kirby - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gijinka, Kirby's usual misery, M/M, Marx has fun, Marx's usual dirty talk, Mentions of Rape, in the form of making fun of Kirby and talking about his dead friends, kid never catches a break, little bit of Leech, little bit of Lethe, underage technically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 14:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13549170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: Kirby isn't doing well.





	I’m always dreaming but I’ll never sleep again

The touching was constant. 

It always had been, but he hadn’t realized anything odd at first. Because at first it was an arm slung around his shoulder, or thoughtless handholding, or perhaps just standing too close. Sure it had been strange, but Marx was strange, so he hadn’t thought anything of it. 

Marx was clingy to his friends, Kirby reasoned, if he thought about it at all. Marx liked being physically close to people. Marx liked human contact. 

And it wasn’t as if Kirby minded. Living on his own, friends with everyone but close to few, Kirby soared under the attention. 

His trust and naiveté were humiliating to look back upon. Marx knew from the start exactly what he was doing. 

The way he’d fit his hand into Kirby’s and smile like they shared some secret. How naughty and conspiratorial it made Kirby feel, like doing something just a little bit bad. He’d squeeze Marx’s hand and smile back, pleased to be included in the secret, even if he didn’t know what it was. 

Sometimes, Marx let his sharp sharp nails caress oh-so-slowly up and down Kirby’s pale forearm. It made Kirby’s hair stand on end, and his flesh jump and shiver, but the sensation was gratifying, and Marx was always grinning wildly, so Kirby knew whatever it was, it had to be good, right?

Then there was the way he’d cradle him at night, fingers caressing his hip, warm breath tickling the nape of his neck. He was all sharp bone and sinewy muscle, but he knew just how to contour himself, back to chest, thigh to thigh, so that at all times Kirby felt secure, embraced, and – dare he say it - loved. 

And the way he bestowed sleepy affection in the morning, nuzzling his mussed blonde hair and twining their legs and hugging him tight. Detangling from Marx was always a playful affair, where Kirby had to persuade him that yes, in fact, he did have to get up and go about his day and that no, they could not just sleep in the whole morning. But when he marched out of his house as the sun rose, there was an extra spring in his step. How different Marx was! Affectionate and clingy and not at all afraid to admit that he missed him! 

In another light, it could be considered obsessive. Jealous. Needy. 

Dangerous.

But Kirby had never met someone with those traits. He had never known evil. Dreamlanders were all peaceful, all good-intentioned, despite their occasional flaws. He trusted every person he met.

And maybe it was that absolute trust that led to his absolute fall.

Because Marx wasn’t like the other Dreamlanders. He played along and pretended to be, for a while. But he wasn’t. 

It was on Kirby’s departure from Dreamland, with eyes stinging from flames and terror, and his body wrecked by horror, deprived of food, and dizzy with lingering narcotic, that this became excruciatingly clear.

Not just for what Marx had already done, but for what he proceeded to do on that ship.

Dreamland had not yet faded into space, the blood on Marx’s shirt had not yet dried, before the jester chose to savagely demonstrate what all those treacherous touches were meant to lead up to. 

And Kirby simultaneously understood everything, and understood nothing. 

* * *

The touching didn’t stop. Except it wasn’t like before. The very same gestures were no longer playful, teasing, but rather sinister. Marx’s clawed fingers roamed over his forearms, his shoulders, his back, all in mock kindness, _don’t you like it, Kay? I’m just trying to help…_ And the prickly shivery sensations melded with cold terror. 

Nothing was his; nothing was private. Marx suddenly owned every inch of his skin. There was no reprieve. 

Kirby went to the showers to scrape his body clean, but Marx joined him even there and made sure he would never feel clean again.

The first week, Marx was relentless; he forced himself onto Kirby with violent, giddy abound, trapping him in hallways, the control deck, bathroom, bedroom, hungry to make up for all the time he had restrained himself in Dreamland.

During this time, certain sights and sounds became familiar to Kirby. The tiny ridges in the painted walls, the miniscule flecks of dust on the pillows, the tile of the bathroom wall that Marx ground his face into.

Marx breathing heavily into his ear, Marx cooing his name, Marx taunting him….

Kirby became intimately familiar with the breathless, jittery voice with which Marx talked during these activities. He was never short of topics and had especial fondness for mentioning Meta Knight, Fumu, Dreamland and all the ways Kirby failed them all. On especially gregarious days, he detailed the killing and eating of the missing servant and scathingly delighted in pretending he was sad that he couldn’t remember her name.

“Hey, you know, what I realized?” he crowed once, “If you hadn’t decided to be my friend, and bring me to Dreamland, nobody would have ever gotten hurt! ‘Cause, you know, Kay, I was pretty happy hanging around outside the border. But you - but you just couldn’t help yourself, could you? You had to drag me in and put everyone in danger. It’s because of you they’re dead!”

For hours after, Kirby lay awake, staring into the darkness with Marx’s arm slung over his waist, and the jester’s light breath ruffling the hairs on the back of his neck.

_if it wasn’t for me…_

_if I hadn’t…_

_if I didn’t…_

_…it’s my fault_

During that first week, Kirby sometimes fought back. But Marx didn’t like that. Sometimes, bones broke. Inevitably, bruises bloomed. And Marx got what he wanted in the end, anyway.

* * *

Kirby remembered being small.

Remembered coming up no higher than Meta Knight’s waist.

Back then, he had a large mess of curly blonde hair that constantly got in his eyes. He often held it up with one grubby hand to gaze up at his much taller peers.

At Dreamland’s golden gate, holding his hair just like that, he’d peered up at Meta Knight’s cold gleaming mask.

_“Never cross this line. Do you understand, Kirby? You are to never, ever cross this line. Demons live beyond here. If you cross, they will devour you.”_

Fumu, too, on another day just as bright and perfect, _“Don’t even think about leaving Dreamland! Everyone knows it’s not safe!”_

Mrs. Fitter gazing out from her flower garden, _“demons… they’re wicked creatures, Kirby. They have claws, and fangs, and scales.”_

Stories. Every villager had stories about them. None of the villagers had ever met one. But they spoke of monsters, ravenous beasts, scooping up children and carrying them away to never be seen again.

He hadn’t understood. 

Not then. Not then.

_Don’t cry._

A sob wrenched from his throat.

_Stop it stop it_

His shoulders shook. 

_No this isn’t helping_

His lips peeled back, teeth bared in a silent scream.

Hot tears slid down his cheeks.

_Get up don’t cry stop this_

But he sank down till his butt hit the floor. His skull thumped against the back wall as he gasped for breath. 

_Stop you’re just making yourself feel worse_

Swollen cheeks and red eyes, he looked ugly and disgusting.

_Marx is going to know you cried_

He clutched his shirt, hands shaking. Please someone save me

_No one is coming. Get up. Wipe your face. Before he finds you._

And Kirby tried. He forced open his eyes, swollen and full of salty tears, and settled his hands on the dusty floor as if to force himself up. 

But there, his strength left him. He couldn’t. He- he –

Like a wave, the despair surged up in him. First, his legs felt numb, then it rushed up through his spine; finally a cry burst from his lips and the tears poured afresh.

Everyone knows it’s not safe, they had said. Demons.

No. Everyone hadn’t known. No one had known this kind of evil. Even after experiencing it, Kirby couldn’t fathom it. How a person could do these kinds of things…. Why these kinds of actions had to exist, had to have names…

Kirby clapped a hand to his mouth, swallowing down the vomit that threatened to rise.

He didn’t want to know. 

He didn’t want to know anything more, if there was anything more to know. He didn’t want to see other worlds. He didn’t want to meet other people. Dreamland – that’s what he wanted. But not the way it was now, and not the way he was now. He wanted a Dreamland before Marx came. He wanted himself before he knew these things.

He wanted nothing in the last year to have happened. And he wanted Meta Knight to have never sent him out of the border. He wanted the nightmares to have never come to Dreamland.

“Oh,” another voice suddenly murmured. “There you are, Kay. Thought you could hide, hmm?”

A soft cry parted from his lips. 

_Let me end._


End file.
